


The Castle

by blacktail_chorus



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comfort, Existential Angst, Gen, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 03:47:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2135856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktail_chorus/pseuds/blacktail_chorus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Yeah, I still don't get it," John confessed.</i>
</p><p><i>"Neither do I," Sherlock stated.</i><br/>---</p><p>Sherlock worships his gods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Castle

**Author's Note:**

> AN: This work was born from a desire to find a reason for Sherlock to build a sandcastle, and also from the basic idea behind [Tibetan sand mandalas.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sand_mandala)

50°43'33.92" N  
2°51'19.20" W

John picked his way carefully down the rocky slope that led to the GPS coordinates his flatmate had texted him that morning. A trip on the Tube, a train, a bus, and a cab ride later, he had finally arrived at the isolated beach the coordinates represented.

There was no police tape and no sign of activity on the sliver of sand visible from his path. Odd--he'd assumed he'd been summoned to a new crime scene. Sherlock had left London two days prior without explanation, and John had thought it had something to do with a new case. Perhaps it was all around the corner. He alighted on the sandy flat and turned to navigate around the tall rocks blocking his view of the rest of the beach.

The sight that met him on the other side was certainly unexpected. The strip of beach was deserted save for one lone figure in a linen shirt and khaki trousers. He was kneeling in the sand, bare, bony heels sticking up and dark, curly head bent down. He held up a small plastic bucket filled with packed wet sand and flipped it over onto the most complex and beautiful sandcastle John had ever seen.

The sandcastle was low and wide with a series of concentric walls surrounding a central structure. Each wall had a series of towers and battlements arranged with precise geometry. The structures were more delicate than John would have thought possible. As he approached his eye picked up more details: shells and stones were placed decoratively around walls and atop towers. The central tower had a spiral ledge leading from the outside base to the very center top. It was crowned by... was that a matchbox? It was, and it shared the space with three used microscope slides.

Sherlock was completing the final portion of the outermost wall. He had neither looked round nor given any other indication that he was aware that John had arrived, but John knew he'd been observed all the same. John walked up to Sherlock's side.

"Won't this wash away when the tide comes in?" he asked, noting the high water mark on the beach above.

"Precisely the point," Sherlock replied. "You made good time."

John waited for him to continue, but Sherlock seemed content to finish building in silence.

So John waited. He looked around and watched the gulls swoop and wheel above their heads. He breathed deeply. Ordinarily, such an abrupt and extraordinary summons followed by Sherlock's complete lack of acknowledgement would have warranted a terse comment or two, but the beach was quite lovely and he just wasn't in the mood for shouting. He waited, and watched.

Finally, Sherlock stood up, wiping sand from his trousers and rubbing it from his hands. "I'd meant to have it finished before you arrived," he stated.

"Oh?"

Silence again. Sherlock gazed out at the waves. He still hadn't looked John in the eye.

"I am a scientist, John. You know that I value observation and reason above all things. Science is even the basis for my interactions with other people. You must realize that humans are animals, and our societies and religions are no more than adaptations in our species. They soothe our overdeveloped brains and promote cooperation among individuals that enhances reproductive success and are therefore perpetuated."

All strictly true, John thought, though perhaps a bit bleak. "So that's why you look down on society, then? No interest in 'reproductive success'?"

Sherlock cracked a smile. "Indeed. At any rate I have no interest in causing someone new to suffer through this life. "

He had attempted the line with his usual haughty bravado, but the tone was... off. He sensed that John had picked up on the bobble and sighed.

"Despite my best efforts I have not been able to transcend my own humanity."

He paused again. John remained silent. After all these years, he'd just about given up on trying to predict where Sherlock's thought processes might lead, but this was unusual even for him. He was talking about _himself_ , and even seemed to be struggling to collect his thoughts. That was... new.

"When I was a boy my family would often go on holiday to the sea," Sherlock continued. "Sometimes I built sandcastles in order to watch them be swept away by the tide. Do you understand?" 

"Mmm... no, I can't say that I do," John replied apologetically.

Now Sherlock turned and faced John at last. His gaze was as sharp as ever, yet something troubled disturbed his cool, pale eyes. 

"I fear boredom. I crave action not because of some childish impatience but because without it, I cannot escape my own mind. I cannot escape the fact that I am an insignificant and unimportant creature clinging to a rock whose inconsequential life will sooner or later come to an end, and whose existence ultimately means nothing."

To Sherlock's surprise, John's immediate reaction to his bitter speech was to chuckle.

"Now try wrestling with that conundrum while patching up a bullet wound on a soldier who's going to turn around and get shot dead tomorrow defending an outpost that will ultimately be ceded to enemy combatants next month," John quipped. "You're not the only one who needs to be distracted, you know. And you're a hell of a great distraction."

Sherlock's initial consternation at John's response dissolved by the end, replaced by a snicker of his own. "I imagine I am," he agreed, and lapsed into silence once again.

"So what's this about, then?" John prompted, crossing his arms and fixing his friend with his best Captain Watson stare.

"I was hoping you'd stay to watch the tide come in," Sherlock admitted baldly. He looked as though he'd surprised himself by saying such a sentence aloud.

"Right," John agreed. He looked over at the sandcastle. While they'd been talking, the advancing tide had reached the base of the outermost wall. "Well, then, we can't stay here." With another glance in Sherlock's direction, he led the way up the beach to the dry side of the high tide line. He sat, and Sherlock followed suit, folding himself down beside him. Both men looked out at the oncoming sea.

"The microscope slides?" John asked after a moment.

"You might call them offerings."

"Oh."

A wave managed to breach the outer wall and sent water flowing through the channels within the larger structure.

"Yeah, I still don't get it," John confessed.

"Neither do I," Sherlock stated. "Yet in my experience this process facilitates a sense of calm, at least for a time."

"All right, then."

The delicate towers melted into broad lumps, their decorative stones and shells half-buried inside. The channels Sherlock had made were filled in and then incised again by each retreating wave, leaving complex, dendritic patterns in the sand that not even the most careful craftsman could replicate.

As time passed, more and more of the sandcastle was consumed by successive waves. The spiraled central tower was an island for a time, and then the turbulence carving away its sides destabilized the structure and sent the peak sliding down into the sea. Its offerings were consumed.

Still the two men looked on.

Then Sherlock shook himself, and stood, just as the evening began to blossom. "Dinner?" he asked.

"Starving," John agreed.

And they left the beach behind, to let the wind and the waves smooth over their footprints as if they'd never been.


End file.
